


Between a Shaw and a Hard Place

by colfield



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Canon Typical Shenanigans, Gen, Hobbs and the continuing adventures of the Shaw family ruining his life, M/M, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colfield/pseuds/colfield
Summary: Luke Hobbs had stopped asking the universe how he ended up in these situations a long time ago. At this point in his life, it was easier to accept what was happening and roll with it.
Relationships: Luke Hobbs/Deckard Shaw
Comments: 14
Kudos: 280





	Between a Shaw and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

> .......there's a joke about the rock in here somewhere

**(one shaw)**

Hattie finds him exactly where she left him the night before, sun warming his face.

Hobbs offers her a beer wordlessly, the quiet hiss of the pressure releasing filling the space of conversation. He clinks his half-drunk one against the overflowing lip of her bottle, eyes still carefully focused on the brilliant orange glow casting the world in silhouette.

He thinks of her lips on his, yesterday, when all this felt as distant as a dream. Without the undercurrent of danger in the air, the threat of death and destruction hanging heavy over their heads, it doesn’t send the same thrill of excitement through his core.

She lets the silence settle.

He appreciates that about her. She’s damn smart, and fierce, and funny in a wry British way, and she knows how to soak up a moment.

“Where you off to next?” He asks, the empty bottle weightless in his fingers. He casts a side-long glance at her.

Hattie shrugs in the same careless, effortless way of he’s used to seeing on broader male shoulders. “Don’t reckon MI6 will welcome me back with open arms, do ya?”

Hobbs snorts, an ugly and surprised noise. “Probably not.” He turns fully to her, putting his right side against the fading light. “But you were set up,” his head tips slightly to the left.

The bottle against her lips pauses. Hattie blinks, a quick, fluttering of dark lashes against her pale cheeks. “After all that’s happened,” she shakes her head. A few curls catch the breeze, fly wildly around her face for a moment before settling.

“That can all be history. If you want it to be.”

“Can it?” She looks at him, eyes wide, searching. It’s easy to forget, with all they’ve been through in the past seventy-some-odd hours, just how young she is. “Don’t know if I want it to be.” Her smile is painful, a small, unsure little tilt of her mouth. “‘Sides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To fix my mistakes. Don’t think I can do that while tied to the past.”

Hobbs nods, shifting back to fully face the deep navy sky darkening around them. Out here on the islands, so far from the cities bleeding light for miles, the stars feel close enough to touch. How wide, that endless expanse of sky makes you feel like the only person around. There’s five, maybe ten, more minutes of sun before it fades out completely.

“I’m not getting out of the game entirely. Just,” she grins at Hobbs, quick and sharp, “switching teams.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, great.” He bumps his shoulder goodnaturedly against hers. “Well, there’s always a place in LA for you.”

Hattie turns a calculating gaze on him. “Hmm, is that so,” is all she says.

His family has never missed a chance to celebrate, and based on the sounds drifting down to them from the house, the party is in full force now. Hobbs grins.

It’s good to be home.

In a different life, this would be the moment to make his move. He would touch her forearm, make a sly innuendo, pull her close by her hips, kiss her the way any girl deserves to be kissed after saving the world.

Instead, he guides Hattie back with a gentle hand on her upper back.

Jonah is holding court, arms waving wide arcs, tequila sloshing over the rim of his glass. There are piles of brothers and cousins and neighbors scattered at his feet, each one aggressively more drunk than the next, leaning into each other in a lazy, sideways sprawl. Jonah’s barely making sense, speech skipping between English and Somoan, the hollars and leers of the crowd mostly drowning out his words.

Shaw sits just outside the group, fire catching the soft laugh lines of his face. He’s lounging against the door of a Chevy, posture an open invitation, bottle loose in his grip. He tips his head in what could be considered a step from friendly when he catches Hobbs looking.

“You’re good for each other.” Hattie says, idle, but her lips twitch up slightly, promising trouble.

“Hattie,” Hobbs says around a long suffering sigh. “The last few times we came together, we tried to kill each other.”

Hattie shoots him a truly unimpressed look, folding her arms over chest. “If my brother really wanted you dead, you would be dead.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose, adding after a moment, “and I think the same is true for you.”

And, well.

“All I’m saying is,” she pauses for effect, rolling her eyes in her brother’s direction. “I’m glad he has someone he trusts to watch his back. He’s been on his own for too long.” Her voice has gone quiet, her mouth ticked thoughtfully to the side as she watches Shaw. He’s saying something to Jonah, his words lost to the rowdy night pressing in from all sides.

“I think your brother is more than capable of holding his own.” His mind flashes back to a four story drop.

“Maybe. But it’s nice to know he doesn’t have to do it alone.”

Hattie is gone before Hobbs has a chance to respond, shadows playing darkly around her as she moves past the fire. He loses her in the crowd - she’s too good at blending, at finding the gaps and slipping between them.

Shaw is not as successful. Jonah has an arm around his neck, pulling him against his side and whisper-shouting with his mouth pressed against Shaw’s cheek.

Hobbs chuckles. He decides to play nice and rescue Shaw from Jonah’s drunken tirade - mostly because he plans on stealing whatever bottle of alcohol Shaw has pilfered and is currently keeping to himself.

“This -” Jonah crows, still shaking Shaw by the iron grip he has on Shaw’s shoulders. Shaw grimaces, but makes no move to stab Jonah between the ribs, so Hobbs judges his brother to be safe for the time being. “Is one mad motherfucker.” Jonah sways then, brandishing the hand full of his drink at Hobbs. “Smarter than you, baby brother. You need to keep him around.”

“Jonah.” Hobbs says. He’s far too sober for this. Considers how bad the fallout would be if he swiped the drink from Jonah’s hands for himself.

He’ll take his chances with Shaw.

“Why don’t you go get another drink?” He winks, nodding at the house. Jonah looks about to argue, before deciding it’s not worth it and wandering off with a muttered curse.

“Cheers,” Shaw says, rolling his head in a circle around his shoulders.

“I’m taking this as payment.” Hobbs mutters, settling himself against the side of the Chevy and snagging the bottle from Shaw’s grip. Shaw lets him take it with surprising ease. Hobbs winces as he takes a long pull from the bottle. It’s top shelf, and he has no idea where Shaw managed to grab a bottle like this from his family’s reserve, but he’s not about to question it at the moment.

“You know,” Hobbs says after a long beat where the two of them watch the crowd pulse with the music someone has set up from their car. “That’s twice tonight I’ve heard from our siblings how we should stay together.” He’s starting to feel fuzzy at the edges from the alcohol, enhanced by overexertion and too many days without sleep. A pleasant warmth spreads through him.

“Huh,” is all Shaw grunts in response. His eyes are closed, face smoothed and shoulders dropped.

Hobbs drifts, relaxing into the chaotic safety of the moment - the familiar curves of the car fitting to the arch of his back, the reverbing bass of the music lulling him between bouts of his family’s slurred laughter, the press of Shaw’s arm against his own, a steadying weight to lean on.

**(two shaw)**

Luke Hobbs had stopped asking the universe how he ended up in these situations a long time ago. At this point in his life, it was easier to accept what was happening and roll with it.

Still, being locked in a storage closest tied to Magdalene Shaw wasn’t exactly how he saw this day going.

“Well, since we’ve got some time on our hands,” Magdalene says, decidedly casual. Hobbs sighs. He’s starting to suspect this hasn’t been an accident. “Tell me more about yourself, Luke Hobbs, former DSS agent.” She pauses. “Or are you back with them now? I can never keep it straight.”

They’re sitting back to back, so Hobbs can’t read her expression, though she’s utterly calm pressed up against him. She’s a slight woman, smaller than even Shaw, but something in her cadence has the military training beat into Hobbs standing at attention.

He shifts to speak to her in his peripheral. “I’ve been with the DSS since 2004 -”

“Not the boring stuff.” Magdalene scoffs, managing to make even that sound haughty and refined as she speaks over him. ”If I was interested in all that, I would’ve saved us both the trouble and read your file. No. I want to know about the man my son has been spending so much time with lately.”

Hobbs huffs a bit, at a loss. “Trust me, it’s not exactly by choice,” he sputters. “On either side.”

The cuffs are tight enough around his wrist that he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers a bit. He clenches them into fists a few times to get the blood flowing. Magdalene’s skin is dry and cool when he brushes against her.

“He can be quite sensitive, my Deckard.” She says, voice gone soft and stern in equal measure.

Hobbs pauses his fiddling, tilting his head around a smirk. “You don’t say?”

“Oh yes. He didn’t have the easiest childhood, though I tried my best, you know. But he was a good brother, always looking after the other two. He takes their mistakes to heart.”

Hobbs has to bite back the laugh growing across his face. This is Shaw’s mother, after all, and his record with members of the Shaw family throwing his things at his head is not ticked in his favor.

He gets the complicated family thing, though, much as he is loathe to admit to another commonality between him and Shaw.

“And after the whole mess with that Bixton fellow,” Magdalene trails off with a shake of her head, and for the first time her voice touches up in emotion, the measured lilt of her accent clipped in anger.

Hobbs grunts in agreement. He’s had his fair share of nemeses, Shaw and his maniac brother topping the list at one time or another, but none of them quite as nasty as Brixton Lore. He can’t exactly begrudge Magdalene for her defensive instincts, not when he nearly put an eleven-year-old through a wall for bullying Sam a few months back.

And that little shit still holds the top spot on his list.

“I just want to ensure that my boy is in good hands with his new partner.”

“I’m not his partner.” Hobbs says, automatically. It’s concerning how often he has to repeat that sentence lately. You save the world a handful of times with a guy and suddenly he becomes your partner? Hobbs is very good at compartmentalizing the people he works with and the people he trusts to do the job right. Shaw just happens to fall into the limited second category.

So what if they’ve been running into each other with a bit more frequency lately? It didn’t mean they were about to team up Avengers Style. Hobbs has his work with the DSS, more or less, and Shaw does whatever it is that Shaw does, and when they’re called, they show up after the appropriate amount of hassle and posturing threats.

Okay. It was maybe a _little_ like the Avengers.

“Whatever you two are calling your little team-ups, then.” Magdalene says, picking up the thread of the conversation. “The point remains, that my son hasn’t had the best judgement in the past, and I just want to know that you have the right intentions with him.”

Hobbs closes his eyes.

This is a punishment, he’s sure of it. There’s no other explanation.

Magdalene doesn’t say anything else, clearly content on waiting him out.

Her silence sits differently than her children’s. Hattie takes full advantage of her silences; Owen’s were rare but dangerous, a low simmering menace; Shaw never shuts the fuck up, unless he’s being a pompous show-off about something.

Magdalene’s is the heavy and expectant silence of a mother waiting to discipline.

Hobbs _hates_ that he knows enough about the Shaw’s to differentiate their silences.

He sighs, loudly through his nostrils, rolling his head heavenward.

“Shaw and I - we’re -” He starts and stops, licks his lips, trying to collect his thoughts. “We can’t stand each other most days. He’s a rude, insolent little brat, who doesn’t work well with others, and his solution to everything is to blow it up. No offense,” he says around a wince. She makes a small noise of agreement at the back of the throat, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. “But with my feet to the fire, there’s no one else I’d trust to get me out of that situation alive. And while I might fantasize about putting his head through a wall every time he talks, I would sooner take a bullet for him then let him go down that way.” It’s a little more honest than he usually gets with himself, a little too close to the unspoken truth between him and Shaw.

Not that he’d ever admit that aloud within spitting distance of Shaw.

“Well.” Magdalene says after a beat. “Good.”

“Good?” His face does the eyebrow thing before he can stop it.

“Yes. All the best partnerships benefit from a bit of light rivalry. Keeps things fun.” Hobbs chuckles. “Now,” Magdalene says, something clicking softly under her voice. He blinks, and she’s standing in front of him, two pairs of cuffs swinging loosely from her index finger. “Let’s say we get out here, hm?”

“How -” He starts to ask, before shaking his head. “Nevermind,” He says rubbing his wrists, fingers pulsing as the blood rushes back to them. “I don’t wanna know.”

He’d been steadily categorizing the room they were unceremoniously tossed into, seeking out the weak points. It’s bare, four stark white walls, the two steel chairs chained to the cement floor, a sturdy door locked from the outside.

The second rate thugs running this piss-poor excuse of an arms dealing operation hadn’t considered them much of a threat at the time: him, unarmed, Magdalene playing up the wide-eyed ignorance of a rich white lady. A wild underestimation, but he’s still not sure of their odds. A bunch of amateurs with guns can be a whole lot more dangerous in tight quarters than trained professionals.

Hobbs tests the strength of the door against his weight. It holds - only barely. It wouldn’t take much to kick the door open, but it will be loud. He tells as much to Magdalene.

“Come on, now, we can take a couple of substandard goons between us. I mean, look at the size of you, honestly.” She steps back to size him up, smirking. Hobbs shifts his weight under her stare.

Everyone loves to bitch about ‘Hobbs the human battering ram’, but in his experience if the quickest way out of a sticky situation is through it, it’s best to take that option. Stealth only gets you so far if it still ends with a gun to your head. At least his way will take out a good number of them before that happens.

_Need help with a bit of light reconnaissance_ Magdalene had told him, showing up on his doorstep with a smile that wouldn’t melt butter. _I hear you’re the best._ He should’ve known better. Truthfully, this was on him at the end of the day.

It takes three heavy kicks to loosen the frame; a fourth and the door swings open. An alarm immediately flares to life, loud enough that Hobbs’ ears will be ringing by the time this is over.

A shout echoes from somewhere in the bowels of building, bouncing off the metal walls in the empty hallway, commotion stirring up in the belly of the beast.

“Shall we?”

Hobbs ducks, sweeping his arm out in front of the both of them. “After you, Magdalene.”

“Oh, what a gentleman.” She grins, taking his arm. “And my friends call me Queenie.”

It’s quick after that. Magdalene Shaw is possibly more lethal than all of her children combined. Hobbs loses track of her in the fray, too preoccupied with separating the men in front of him from their guns.

It’s not something that sits easily with himself, but it feels good to forget the careful control he holds every day. His body has memorized the natural rhythm of violence. It’s better than any workout - nothing compares to the way a fist connects with a human body, the force it takes to really put someone down, hard enough that they won’t get back up. He’s lived his whole life by someone else’s rules: his family, the military, the government, Mr. Nobody. Different name, same bullshit. But in the middle of a fight, he doesn’t have to think about the next move, doesn’t have to worry about following orders, doesn’t have to play nice for someone else’s benefit. He can lean into that secret, primal instinct to tear into another person and let loose all the built up hostility he hides from the rest of the world.

By the end of it, he’s sweating, grinning and breathing hard, muscles aching pleasantly around the buzzing of the adrenaline rush.

It doesn’t last long.

“There he goes again,” a familiar rough drawl calls. Hobbs spins, eyes narrowing in on target.

Deckard Shaw, looking smug in one of his pretentious designer suits. “His answer to everything,” Shaw continues, mouth slanted as his speaks, “throw some people around, and break some shit.”

“And here you are, showing up after the hard part is over, like always.” Hobbs sneers. His body is still keyed up from the fight, ready to go another round. He takes a half step forward, fingers curling into fists at his sides, leftover aggression churning just under the surface. Shaw’s sharp eyes track Hobbs, frown deepening, but he keeps his posture loose.

It takes a moment for Hobbs’ brain to click over - Shaw’s not looking for a fight. He forces himself to relax, circling his shoulders back to shake out the tension from his muscles.

“Wait, what are you doing here?” Hobbs asks. “How did you even know we were here?”

“Better question is,” Shaw snaps, heat returning to his voice now that Hobbs has backed off, pointing an accusatory finger at Hobbs. “what are you doing with my mother?”

“Oh, relax, Dex, I dragged him into all this,” Magdalene says, emerging from the shadows like some elegant portent. She still looks impeccable and polished amongst the carnage at her feet. Shaw is making his sucking-on-a-lemon face at Hobbs, but he leans down when Magdalene puts a hand to his shoulder, offering his cheek to her greeting kiss.

“Mum,” Shaw warns, but it’s offset by the desperately soft look he cuts her way.

“We’re just having a bit of fun, isn’t that right, Luke?” She turns to face him, one hand still resting on Shaw’s shoulder. Hobbs wants to make fun of him for it, badly, but refrains while Magdalene is still around, mostly because he’s a bit terrified of what she’s capable of. “About time you found yourself a decent partner.”

“ _Not_ his partner.” Hobbs rushes.

“He’s not my partner.” Shaw says at the same time, sounding as pained as Hobbs feels.

Magdalene holds up both hands, glancing between the two of them with wide eyes, lips pursed like she has more to say.

Hobbs clears his throat, “I’m gonna go,” he points behind him, already turning his back to them, “call someone to clean this up.”

“I like this one,” she whispers, loud enough for it carry to Hobbs.

The call is brief. Hobbs is stingy with the details, sharing only the basic facts: who, where, what. He deliberately leaves out the _why_. He’s at the point in his career where his bosses are happy enough with the results to not bother questioning his methods.

Magdalene is gone by the time he finishes up, slipping away before anyone with the authority to arrest her shows up. Shaw is still here, pale fingers smoothing along the sleek black metal of one of the guns. He looks good with a gun in his hand. It makes a fitting picture: the neat lines of his body, expensive fabric stretching taut over the muscles of his back, his hold sure and firm around the grip, the quick and familiar precision of his movements as he inspects the weapon.

“Thinking about bringing a souvenir back with you?”

Shaw glances over his shoulder, eyeing Hobbs consideringly, like he’s wondering whether Hobbs will try to stop him or not. He doesn’t care all that much about the guns either way - they’re illegal, sure, but most of what Shaw deals in is questionably legal to begin with, and he’s long stopped caring about the parameters of the law when it comes to this side of his job.

Shaw shrugs, a careless roll of his shoulders, replacing the gun and spinning to face Hobbs in one fluid motion.

“So, really, how’d you know we were here?”

Shaw scoffs, rolling his eyes. Hobbs clenches his jaw. He’s never met anyone who manages to make a simple action so loudly obnoxious. “She tried dragging me into this nonsense weeks ago. Figured she’d find someone dumb enough to drag along eventually.” He grins, sharp and dirty. “Turns out I was right. How did she talk you into this?”

Hobbs squints, eyes landing somewhere to the left of Shaw’s head. Weighs how truthful he wants to be. Settles on, “she asked me for help.”

Shaw laughs, caught on a surprise. It changes his whole face, open and easy. “You must be dumber than you look if you fell for that. She just got you to take out the competition.”

“I really hate your family.”

“C’mon, big guy.” Shaw claps his shoulder as he passes by. “I’ll buy you a beer for the trouble.”

Hobbs, helpless, follows.

**(three shaw)**

It wasn’t often that Shaw called him.

They rarely kept in contact outside of the jobs they still got pulled into through Toretto’s orbit. But it wasn’t entirely unheard of, one or the other reaching out in a bind. In the eight months since the Eteon mess, things had calmed between them. Shaw still pissed him off at every turn, and Hobbs’d gladly slap the irritating smirk off his face given the right moment, but for the most part things were fine. Civil, even, for them.

They weren’t _friends_ or any other silly, sentimental crap like that. In the right light, though, Hobbs could be pressed into admitting he actually liked working with Shaw. Preferred it, in most cases, to the inexperienced cocksure agents he normally got paired with.

So if Shaw called, Hobbs answered.

He’s reconsidering that standpoint now.

“What’s Rent-A-Cop doing here?” The accent is right, but the voice is too even, the vowels too polished to belong to his Shaw.

Hobbs drops his kit with a grunt, lets the nasty smile unfurl on his lips before he turns. “Owen Shaw.” He tilts his head, leaning into the kind of antagonism he hasn’t needed in a while. “Last time I saw you, you were falling outta a plane.”

Owen’s mouth twitches, mirroring Hobbs. “Still the same obedient government lapdog, eh, Hobbs?” He’s taller than his brother, uses the extra inches to his advantage, lifting his chin mockingly. “Sit. Stay. Roll over.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna see what kind of bite this dog has.” He bares his teeth, hands reaching for the edge of the table, a chair back, anything to steady the anticipatory tremor that calls for a fight.

Owen’s eyes catch the movement. He settles his weight, straight-backed under his casual street clothes, leaning away from Hobbs’ glowering. “Run along, now, pup. This is a bit above your intelligence level.”

Hobbs moves, getting into Owen’s space in a few steps. “Keep talking, pretty boy.” He murmurs, voice gone low and dangerous. Owen’s eyes flash. “You’ll earn yourself a new set of scars to match the other side.” He lets his own gaze linger on the puckered skin on Owen’s left side.

“Alright, children, quit your bickering.” Shaw shoves between them, a firm hand to the center of Hobbs’ chest to push him back. “You can measure your dicks later. Let’s get this over with, huh?” He meets Hobbs’ eyes, holding them for a beat, waiting out his next move.

“Yeah,” Hobbs rubs the back of his neck, letting the pressure of Shaw’s hand push him back a few more paces.

Owen winks. “Good boy.”

“Oi, you, shut it.” Shaw snaps his fingers in his brother’s face. “He’s here because of the mess you made.”

Owen does shut up after that, sulking off to the corner with sullen frown. If Hobbs were a better man, he would probably resist the self-satisfied gloating. Luckily for him, he’s not, and he smirks at Shaw’s back as he turns to the bank of monitors.

“Don’t get a big head about it,” Shaw says, typing quickly at the keyboard. “You were the only one who answered.”

“Says more about you than it does me, mate.” Hobbs retorts, adopting a highly offensive imitation of Shaw’s accent just to see scowl on his face. Hobbs laughs, bumping his shoulder against Shaw’s, careful not to disrupt the flow of his typing. “So what have we got to work with?”

A series of pictures flash across the screen, various mug shots and surveillance photos. Hobbs recognizes a few of them. Real unpleasant types.

He gets a quick run through of the events, but honestly, the details blur a bit. It doesn’t matter to him how Owen Shaw got mixed up with the Russian mafia, or what they’re attempting to blackmail him with. It’s simple enough - distract Dubinin, grab whatever he’s got on Owen, and turn what is left over to the DA so long as they keep Owen’s name out of it. He’s been through enough of these scenarios that it’s rote by this point, the roles falling into the standard pattern.

The same should be said about Shaw, but he’s fidgeting, brows pulled tight, fingers restless as he checks and double-checks his gear. They run through the plan twice, Shaw meticulous about the specifics, his voice short and urgent. It’s unlike him to be rattled. Hobbs has watched him stare down the barrel of a hundred guns without batting an eye. He’s witnessed Shaw purposefully crash his car without flinching multiple times. Hell, the first night they crossed paths, all those years ago in that tiny hole of an office he’d had, Shaw hadn’t even spared a glance when Hobbs caught him, and he’d like to think he posed a much bigger threat than whatever they’re up against here.

There’s only one reason Hobbs can see to explain why Shaw is so tense this time around.

“Listen,” Hobbs starts, speaking soft into Shaw’s space. His eyes flick to watch Owen’s back for a moment.

“Here we go.” Shaw says around a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes with his whole face.

Hobbs bristles, frowning. “How much can we really trust him?”

“He’s family. Doesn’t that mean something to your lot?” Shaw sneers, defensive. Hobbs opens his mouth to respond, but Shaw cuts him off before he gets the chance to start. “Look, I’m not asking you to trust him. Trust me.”

That steals the argument right out of him.

“Course.” Hobbs agrees, his frown veering towards gentle concern. He’s not stupid enough to say anything resembling _be careful,_ so he brushes his fingers down Shaw’s elbow, once, barely a touch.

He tries to keep that in his head, later - Shaw’s quiet request of trust, his eyes steady on Hobbs, arm pressing back against Hobbs’ fingers for half a breath - instead of giving into the way Owen has been watching at him.

Hobbs has his head back against cool brick, eyes closed, one ear tuned to the ambient noise of Shaw moving through the crowd in his earpiece. He’s inside, serving as the point of contact with Dubinin, while Hobbs has been relegated to babysitter of Owen Shaw.

It’s not exactly stimulating company. Owen vacillates between ignoring Hobbs, and staring at him like he’s figuring out how he works. It’s a bit unnerving.

There’s little else for him to do until Shaw gives them the all clear. He’s been repeating his mediation mantra in his head: _kaua e mate wheke mate ururoa._ The drumbeat of the proverb soothes the nagging itch that something’s wrong.

It’s like this, sometimes, when he’s been out of the action too long. The unshakable restlessness and building dread. He’s never been one to sit on the sidelines, preferring an act first approach.

Something _is_ off, though - the unusual ease of this mission, Shaw’s earlier tension, Hobbs’ own agitation, Owen, fuck, maybe it’s just the weather - whatever it is has put Hobbs’ teeth on edge. His fingers flex into fists and back out by his sides, twitching for something solid to collide with. Anything, to burn off the excess energy.

“Getting a little antsy, there?” Owen’s eyes are dark and serious. There’s nothing in his earpiece, Shaw long gone quiet, and Hobbs doesn’t know what to make of that. If Owen is sniffing for a fight, Hobbs is more than happy to provide one.

“Sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to forgetting you exist.”

Owen laughs, a short, humorless exhale of breath. “Sure, until the next time you drag my brother into some suicide mission.” He takes a few slow steps around Hobbs, not putting distance between them, but reorienting the conversation. Hobbs pulls his shoulders back, tips his head up to his full height. “I am surprised, though, that you haven’t worn out your use yet. Not much a government errand boy like yourself is good for.”

Hobbs grins, mean and sharp, “what’s that, Owen? You threatened by me? Afraid that Deckard won’t need you anymore?”

“Hardly,” Owen spits. “Loyalty, honor, duty. It makes you _weak_. Just look at you,” he gestures derisively at Hobbs. Hobbs works his jaw, chewing over petty words. “Thrown out of a window, jailed for treason, marked as a traitor.” He shakes his head, mocking. “All for what?”

“A little thing called saving the world -”

“It’s pathetic.” He continues, speaking right over Hobbs. “You’ve always got to be the hero. At what cost? How many lives have you lost in the field? How many friends you still got left?”

Hobbs doesn’t say anything, throat dry. He cuts his eyes away from Owen.

“He’s done this whole song and dance once before. Look where it got him.” Owen’s infuriating, ever-present calm giving way to disgust, curling his lip up as he speaks, “you’re going to end up getting him killed.”

Shaw’s voice crackles over his earpiece, a rush of expletives followed by the sharp bark of gunfire. Hobbs spins, half expecting to find the gunman behind him. He reaches for his firearm automatically, over a decade’s worth of instinct taking over. He’s already tracing the quickest route to the action in his mind.

“Well,” Owen drawls, voice returning to his usual deliberate cool, “that’s our cue.”

Hobbs grabs for him with a free hand, fingers past the point of bruising around Owen’s forearm. “Where are you going?”

“Have you bashed your skull one too many times? Forgotten the plan already?”

“This,” Hobbs wincing around an abrupt shout in his ear, “was not the plan -”

“Like I said.” Owen wrenches out of his hold with a fierce jerk. “Always the hero. My brother can handle a few angry boyeviks. He doesn’t need you smashing your way in and complicating the matter.”

“We are not leaving him,” Hobbs says.

“Amazing, how you think you’re calling the shots here.” Owen shakes his jacket by the collar, readjusting the fit over his arms where Hobbs had wrinkled the material. “I’m here for one thing, and I’m not leaving without it.”

There’s another rapid round of gunfire. Hobbs hesitates over the sound long enough for Owen to slip away.

“Ah, _shit_.”

He’s never been much of a runner, too awkward in his bulk, not built for long distances. But he pushes through it, following the sounds of firefight. It takes him ten minutes through a twisty, confusing spiral of hallways. Part of him thrills in the burst of adrenaline, the promise of blood in the air, an excuse to throw his weight against something that will hit back.

Shaw, when he finds him, is in the middle of all the chaos.

Hobbs takes a moment to appreciate Shaw: unrestrained, brutal, efficient. He’s lost his gun somewhere along the way, but that hasn’t slowed him down.

He’s made for this close combat. Hobbs knows firsthand, has been on the other side of it. No amount of brute strength can match Shaw’s speed, his tight control, that crude grace. He’s a particular brand of vicious when backed into a corner.

Hobbs grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet before throwing himself headlong into the fray.

“Save any fun for me?”

“Hobbs,” Shaw doesn’t sound surprised to see him, barely sparing a glance at him as he takes Shaw’s right side.

“This how all your parties end, or just the ones you invite me to?” He lands a satisfying punch, the Russian going down hard enough that bones crack.

“You always talk this much when you’re fighting?” Shaw smirks, eyebrow quirked up in a challenge. “No wonder you’ve never beat me.”

Hobbs shakes his head. He can’t stop grinning. “Oh, it’s on.”

Shaw is a compact, fixed pressure at his back, following his next move before Hobbs has consciously decided on it. He doesn’t have to worry about pulling back, doesn’t have to slow down, doesn’t have to constantly check to see that Shaw is there next to him.

It’s not like this with anyone else. It was only once they stopped fighting each other that Hobbs realized: Shaw’s the same beast as Hobbs. Spent too long caged and fighting the entire world on his own.

Unsurprisingly, they make a bit of a mess.

Hobbs is sure to get an earful about this from someone later on, and Anton Dubinin gets away, but he’s still riding the high of the fight and can’t bring himself to care.

“Quit smiling so much,” Shaw grumbles, shaking his wrist out around a wince. He’s pretending he’s not favoring his left side. Hobbs magnanimously doesn’t bring it up.

“Why?” Hobbs laughs in the way that he knows Shaw hates. “Been too long since we did that.”

“What? Beat our way out of a firefight?” He pulls that stupid face that he makes, brows scrunched low, mouth tilted around his words. Even that doesn’t dampen Hobbs’ mood.

They walk in silence, cutting through empty side streets, the ground wet from earlier rain Hobbs doesn’t recall. It’s an unseasonably mild day, weak sunlight glinting off the rims of cars dotting the quiet street. Hobbs turns his face to the warmth. He’s bruised, bloodied, and still grinning.

Shaw doesn’t say anything resembling _thank you,_ but he does lean briefly into Hobbs’ side, a substantial, pleasant weight. Hobbs misses his heat when he moves away.

Hobbs angles for annoying over the knot that has settled firmly in his chest. “I’m not above telling you _I told you so,_ by the way _.”_ He calls. “Because I did. Tell you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shaw drags his eyes down Hobbs, considering, so different from the way Owen had eyed him. He must find something he likes, because he inclines his head to Hobbs. “You coming?”

Hobbs goes.

**(four)**

Waking up to Shaw in his bed is still an anomaly.

Although, more accurately this morning, it’s Hobbs waking up in Shaw’s stupidly soft bed, the room washed in the muted grays of a London skyline.

Shaw sleeps like the dead, hardly moving once he’s out. Hobbs, meanwhile, starfishes out, taking up as much space as possible. He’s an active sleeper, seeking the most comfortable spot in the middle. It used to piss them both off, sharing a bed. Now, though, Hobbs is kind of getting used to the reassuring weight of Shaw next to him, the gentle measure of his breathing throughout the night.

Hobbs grumbles wordlessly, reaching across the bed for Shaw, fingers glancing off the silk sleeve of Shaw’s nightshirt as he sits up.

Shaw is nearly religious about keeping his routine. He stands to stretch. Hobbs watches him through one narrowed eye, face smashed into the pillow. The bed is warm, the sheets smooth against his skin whenever he moves. It’s his last day in London. He should get up now, otherwise he’ll be late to the gym.

He drifts in that early-morning-half-awake state, sleep threatening to pull him under again. Enjoys the view of Shaw’s thighs flexing through a complicated set of stretches. He’s seen those thighs snap a man’s neck. Last night, he had those thighs wrapped firmly around him.

It’s his last day in London. He burrows deeper into the sheets, rolling fully into the middle of the bed now that it’s empty. He wakes just enough to register Shaw’s fingers against his ankle as he moves to the shower. The rush of water lulls him back to sleep.

He wakes again to someone moving in the kitchen, the smell of coffee enticing enough to pull him out of sleep entirely. His back cracks when he moves to stand, muscles pleasantly sore as he wanders into the bathroom, still humid with the steam from Shaw’s shower. He steals Shaw’s toothbrush, smirking around the bitching he’ll get later for it.

Shaw is at the stove when Hobbs ambles out to find him. He’s in loose joggers, a simple white t-shirt. He looks good.

He smells good, too, when Hobbs steps up behind him, fitting his nose into the curve of his throat. His skin is warm and clean. Hobbs slips one arm around Shaw’s waist, fingers curling under the elastic band of his joggers.

“Get off of me, you oaf.” He snaps, squirming in Hobbs’ grip, his voice rough from sleep. Hobbs hides his smile behind Shaw’s ear and tightens his hold.

He’s careful to stay out of the way of any sharp objects as Shaw chops vegetables, but he makes no move to help or unstick himself from Shaw’s backside, either. He’s contemplating how mad Shaw will be if he bites the hinge of his jaw, but gets distracted by Shaw’s deft fingers cracking eggs into a pan.

He keeps finding himself distracted by Shaw at inopportune moments.

It’s hard to care too much, though, when the end result is this.

It’s what he blames for not noticing Hattie until she stops short in Shaw’s entryway, barking a flat, “what the fuck.”

He jumps away from Shaw then, more from surprise than any real desire to put space between them. Shaw looks annoyed, face pinched tight, but that’s his usual expression so it’s hard to discern any additional meaning from it.

“Jesus, Hattie, come right in why don’t you.” He grumbles, rubbing at his right eye. “What are you doing here?”

“Like I was to know you would be fondling Hobbs in the middle of the kitchen when I walked in.” She narrows her eyes at them, dropping into a seat across the counter. Hobbs is just in his boxers, and while normally he’d not give two damns about modesty, his body is still focusing on how Shaw felt pressed along his front. He shifts subtly behind Shaw for coverage. “Came to see if you fancied breakfast, didn’t realize you had something else on the menu.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Shaw pulls a face at his sister. Hattie grins, unrepentant, nodding at Hobbs.

“Good morning, Hattie.” Shaw glares at him over his shoulder. Hobbs ducks his head, trying not to enjoy this as much as he is. He may be sleeping with the man now, but it’s still fun to see Shaw get riled this way, puffed up like an angry cat.

“How long has this,” Hattie interrupts, pointing between the two of them, “been going on?”

Hobbs shrugs, reaching for the coffee mug to the left while Shaw flips the eggs. It’s gone lukewarm by now, but he doesn’t care, drains half the cup before responding, “about three months now.”

Shaw’s elbow is sharp when it finds Hobbs’ solar plexus.

“Damn,” Hattie curses, slapping an open palm against the counter. “Mum’s won the pot. She’s going to be insufferable about this now, you know that?”

All the joy deflates out of Hobbs immediately. “Wait, what?”

“I didn’t have you boneheads figuring your shit out until well after the New Year,” she continues absently, picking an apple out of a bowl of fruit, rolling it down her arm to catch it in midair.

“You were _betting_ on us?” Shaw hisses.

Hattie shoots her brother an unimpressed look. “It’s like you barely know us, Deckard. We all approve, by the way. Well, except for Owen, he thought you two had been shagging for ages, and he doesn’t approve of anyone, for that matter.”

The eggs are starting to burn. Hobbs reaches around Shaw to remove the pan from the flame and flicks the burner off.

“So is this just a friends-with-benefits thing? Or are you dating? Are you in love?” She pitches up in excitement, teasing.

“Get out,” Shaw’s voice drops to a dangerous register, low warning thunder in his tone. He aims a dish towel at Hattie’s head. She ducks too late but manages to snag it from the air before it finds its target. “Out,” Shaw snaps.

Hattie winks at Hobbs, throwing out a drawn out “bye” over her shoulder. Hobbs chuckles, shaking his head, sliding around Shaw to slouch against the counter. The granite is cool under his arms. He crosses his legs at the ankle, putting himself on display only slightly.

Shaw’s not looking at him, body held stiffly, jaw ticking. Hobbs taps the side of his bare foot against Shaw’s clothed shin.

“What’s going on up there?” Shaw doesn’t respond. His throat works.

Hobbs draws him close by his hips. He doesn’t get distracted by the way his large hands frame Shaw’s narrow waist, but he does file that away for future reference.

“Hey,” Hobbs says, soft. Shaw looks at him, his own hands unfolding to steady his weight against the counter behind Hobbs.

Shaw’s phone buzzes an interruption against the table across the room.

“And, that’ll be Mum,” he groans, forehead pressing into Hobbs’ pectoral. Hobbs wraps him up in a hug, arms tight and secure as they fall into the familiar space at the small of Shaw’s back.

They stay like that for a long while.

“This doesn’t have to be,” Hobbs swallows around a dry mouth, “anything you don’t want it to.” He knows, intimately, the ways in which Shaw’s many layers of trust issues manifest. He doesn’t begrudge Shaw for it - betrayal is a different type of wound. But it’s taken them long enough to get here, as is. He’s not ready to give it up yet, selfish as that may be.

Shaw pulls back to look at Hobbs’s face again, his eyes searching. Hobbs stays open, relaxed, letting him find whatever answer he’s looking for. “It’s not -” Shaw cuts himself off, frustrated. Hobbs rubs a knuckle into the tense muscles in his back. “My family can be,” Shaw frowns, “difficult.”

Hobbs laughs then, full bellied, deep, gasping for air laughter. Shaw is back to his pinched face irritation. “They haven’t scared me off yet,” he says, placating, “there’s not much left for them to do at this point.”

“You don’t know my family,” Shaw mumbles, but his eyes are bright, a smile hiding in the twitch of his lips.

Hobbs drags him into a rough kiss, filthy from the onset. Shaw meets him halfway, like he always does, mouth warm and wet and wanting.

He nudges his cold nose under Hobbs’ jaw when they break away. Hobbs huffs, shifting his hold so Shaw can move where he wants. “It’s your last day in London,” he murmurs, teeth against Hobbs’ skin. His pulse kicks up.

“Sure is.”

Shaw glances pointedly to the bedroom. Hobbs grins.

He lets Shaw lead him.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently this is who I am now.
> 
> Hobbs' meditation mantra is a Maori proverb about perseverance meaning "don’t die like an octopus, die like a hammerhead shark" which just seems so Hobbs. Boyeviks are, according to wikipedia, the term for low-level Russian mobsters. I apologize for the lack of fancy cars in this one - Hobbs doesn't fit in them anyway.
> 
> I'm at [tumblr](https://colfields.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at me about these ridiculous car movies and/or Statham.


End file.
